


by the barest of margins

by cicak



Series: Coronavirus Decameron (WIP Amnesty 2020) [7]
Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: AJ Raffles might stop being a dick for five minutes to you, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cricket World Cup 2019, Crime and Cricket, M/M, apologies to ian smith, cricket journalist bunny, england cricketer AJ Raffles, when you wish upon a super over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: It's the 14th July 2019, England are in the world cup final, and Bunny Manders has finally got press credentials, tickets to Lords, and AJ Raffles' number in more ways than one.
Relationships: Bunny Manders/A. J. Raffles
Series: Coronavirus Decameron (WIP Amnesty 2020) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666177
Comments: 16
Kudos: 17





	by the barest of margins

Look, last summer was amazing, if you were a cricket fan. Most people remember it for that glorious, impossible moment, that commentary, iconic, once in a lifetime event that nevertheless happened twice in a summer. A good summer to be a cricket fan, the English fans said to themselves and anyone who would listen. 

When people think of Raffles from last summer they think of his work in the Ashes tests, the slow, methodical rotating of the strike, his two hours at the centre, that stabilising fifty that set the scene for Stokes to make that incredible stand.

For me, though, even though I am a test man through and through, it was seeing him looking devilishly attractive holding the world cup in one hand and a bottle of champagne for his turn with the urn, topless for unknown reasons in the evening sunshine, that image literally has a pavlovian response for me. Every time it's in the paper or on a website I have to have a cold shower because...well. 

It was incredible for professional reasons too.

It was the first year I managed to get press credentials, actual, proper, _English Cricket Board_ press credentials. The MCC have been very generous for the world cup final, somehow finding space for everyone who wanted to be here, to see this final, to be part of this carnival of cricket within its stately, polite walls. I don’t even think Raffles had a hand in my credentials, not that I would ever ask him, especially since he’s been insistent that it’s best that we appear to not know each other, and even being in the back corner of the second press overflow room at Lords with my laptop dangerously overheating, writing the same thousand words every other hack is writing, watching the endless replay of that ball bouncing off Stokes’ bat to turn that definite run-out into an impossible six, an impossible chance. It’s a dream come true. 

I was shocked out of trawling the thesaurus for another synonym for unprecedented by the violent buzzing of my phone, unbalanced where it lies upside down across my laptop’s power cord. I forced myself to at least run the spell check on my article before giving into the compulsion to check my messages for something I had half convinced myself might happen despite Raffles’ prevailing attitudes to anything approaching sentimentality.

I ignored it for barely a few seconds, but in that time the phone just kept buzzing, so much that might have been a call had it been more rhythmic. My desk-mate glared at me as I changed my last repeated adjective to something unique (unmatched, unrivalled, singular, remarkable, but hopefully not anomalous). “Sorry” I murmured, and finally looked at the long line of messages waiting for me. To my surprise, they were from Raffles. 

“Come find me.” the first message says, followed by a room number, some conference room, by the numbering convention. “There’ll be a card behind the bust”, next, with a picture of the card. Then a picture of a tote bag, bulging with swag. ICC Cricket World Cup Final emblazoned on everything. “I won’t wait” the last message popped in, then and there. I typed a quick reply, slammed my laptop lid shut and threw it in my bag without strapping it down, nodded goodbye to my deskmate, and slung my bag over my shoulder and raced out the door.

It took me ten minutes to find the room, and in the end I needed to ask for directions, half manic and sweaty. A steward eyed my press credentials as I babbled on about an interview, already late, and I didn’t even care that the website listed on my credentials wasn’t exactly CricInfo. England just won the world cup in a tied super-over, mate, I wanted to say. Nothing can dent this vibe.

Eventually I made it through the warren of Lord’s back rooms, slid the card through the reader, and let myself in.

The room has a wide window that looked out over cow corner, but despite this being the first time I’d seen the pitch today, I didn’t even register it, because Raffles was standing there, leaning against some conference table, still in his kit, his hair perfect despite the summer weather, despite making history. He’s red, from the sun, from success, from victory, and there’s a bottle of champagne by his side, a third full, probably flat by how vigorously it must have been shaken for the cameras. The hubbub of the ground was loud even here, even so long after the last ball had been bowled, thousands of people soaking up England’s glory and New Zealand’s misfortune and the early evening sunshine. Below the window someone walks along a line of seats, still drunkenly singing Sweet Caroline, and I sympathise, because it's been stuck in a loop for the last 45 minutes in my head, and I’m not even mad.

“You were marvellous” I gush, striding forward. “AJ, just, it’s beyond words.” 

He shrugs. “Statistically improbable,” he says. “We should have won it properly.”

“Come now!” I say, and I know I’m grinning ear-to-ear, because this was the most thrilling, most intense, most magnificent cricket match I had ever witnessed, and then he looks at me and my mouth, hanging open and about to launch into a defense, slams shut. 

He steps close and touches me and I gasp a little, like it's the first time all over again, a skittish rabbit in the headlights of an England luminary. He ignores me, and takes it on himself to lift the strap of my heavy bag off over my head like it's nothing and carefully leans it against the wall. “You’re shaking,” he says quietly, softly, rubbing his hand against my trembling arm. “Adrenaline” I whisper back, “It’s been one hell of a day. You must let me gush, AJ, or I will die from it.”

“Hmm,” he hums, “perhaps later. I have other things on my mind right now.”

Up close he is radiating heat, he smells of leather and willow and sweat and victory, smells of success and history and stale champagne, and he’s thrumming with adrenaline too, and I know exactly how he likes to burn it off.

He moves fast then, presses me against the table so hard I struggle for a moment against him so as to get enough room to hop up onto the table so we’re equal in height and then we’re kissing, right here in the home of cricket, and while he’s a world cup winner I’ve got press credentials and I’m in his arms, which is the kind of soppy thing he hates but maybe a tied super over is like a shooting star, and even the most pathetic of my wishes can come true for once. 

Under his kit he’s hard and bronzed from being skins in the football warm up, and up close there’s a dusting of freckles across his nose and his collarbones, he’s beautiful and at a peak of male conditioning and my mouth is watering at being close to him again after so long. I can tell he’s had a hair cut for the final, and I know it was because he was contrary; he hates the rampant superstition in the team, likes to pace the dressing room during a run chase to watch the other guys flinch. There’s no such thing as luck, in AJ Raffles’ book, only pluck, and he’s living testament to it. He took three wickets in this match, scored 15 runs, took a catch on the boundary. He’s in the history books forever; no matter what else happens. 

I know all these things about him, and more, and I’ll never write a word, even if that would make my career. That’s the deal. 

I strip his top off, and fall back onto my elbows as he looms over me, sucks bruises into my neck and up to my ear to breathe into it and kiss me for long, long minutes, as I keen and moan, half-sure I can come just from this, the pressure and the attention and his lips against all my sensitive spots as he presses against me, long and lean and hard, his hands holding my wrists down, the way I love it, the way he knows I crave it.

He lets go so as to undo my shirt, pulls my tie off, giving me a look when he recognises the print, passing the long silk length between his palms and I can see the thought forming in his mind from the look on his face, me on my front, hands tied behind my back with my old-boy school tie, worn for an extra grain of luck on this day of all days, him with his ridiculous sky-blue uniform around his ankles, fucking me hard as I look out onto Lord’s. He cocks his head to the side for a moment, and I grin up at him and raise my eyebrows, and he grins back after a second, but doesn’t say anything. He lets me up, and we kiss again as he plays with my tie and makes his mind up, before he slowly helps me to my feet so he can settle himself on the edge, swap our places, and I go to my knees instead, catching my fingers in his waistband and tugging down, suddenly ravenous.

I suck him down and my mind goes blank in that weird way it does when I do this, just the soft space of concentration and single-minded focus on fitting him into my mouth and reaching a rhythm as he strokes my head and says filthy, beautiful things in his lovely voice. He knows I like it when he talks to me, when he gives me feedback, tells me how much he loves it, and I love that even though we’re not supposed to be here he’s not even trying to be quiet, and I can hear the crowd still milling below us, and it feels like it's as much for me as for him. 

It's sloppy and he’s the kind of big and the kind of hard and sensitive that makes this difficult, but its not my first time, so I know how to tackle him and how to enjoy it, and so I do, play with his slit and suck languidly aginst the head like its a cherry, breathe through my nose and go all the way down until my mouth is flooded and my throat is spasming and he’s groaning “Bunny, fuck, yes”, keeping it interesting, until I know he’s close, signalled when he starts swearing and shaking and babbling and I finally take pity on him, set my jaw and sprint towards the finish line with a steady rhythm, lips tucked over my teeth, consistency the aim of the gain. The first spurt of his climax catches me in the back of my throat and goes down smooth, but the rest is anything but, and he pulls me off him at the end so that he finishes coming against my jaw, and god, he’s coming for England, there’s so much, dripping off my jaw and onto my chest in fat gobs that stick in my chest hair and its lewd and disgusting and I love it. 

_“Christ_ AJ”, I say, and when I look up he’s got my tie between his teeth, clutched against his mouth, still caught in the throes of it. I look down and I’m kneeling on his discarded uniform to cushion my knees on this industrial carpet. I’m covered in him and the reality of it swims back to me, how ridiculous, how dangerous it is. I consider taking a selfie, for posterity, but decide against it, and focus on making the memory instead, reliving every second until it's written into my brain.

I keep my eyes closed until I feel him move, and he swipes his thumb across my lip. “You look victorious, Bunny. Like you scored 16 in a super over in front of 30,000 people.”

“Oh, not even New Zealand can do that”, I say, and the laugh that bursts out of him isn’t fake at all. He helps me up, and kisses me as he shoves one hand down past my belt, and jerks me off as he whispers sweet cricketing nothings hot and close into my ear until I come with a sob across his safe, steady hands.

We clean up best we can with Raffles’ top, but I’m still a mess, I can tell by the way he grimaces when I do up my tie, can feel the hot imprint of his mouth raising bruises all the way to my hairline, and decide against caring too much about it. 

“Bunny, wait”, he says, as I leave, and hands me the tote bag. Its full of swag, and he gestures for me to take it out. There’s a mug and some keychains and a boundary card that’s been signed by the whole team, that I’m sure I’ll eventually have to put on ebay to pay the rent, and finally a pair of noisemakers, already removed from their little bag and inflated. I bash them together, and they make a strange dull thudding noise rather than the cacophonous rattle they usually do. Underneath my arm, Raffles is looking smug. Undoing the valve, I peek inside and can immediately see something shining; gold, somehow. Somehow, on today of all days, Raffles still found a jewel to steal. 

“They wouldn’t leave me alone with the trophy,” he says, with a shug. “Next best thing.”

I kiss him and sling my laptop and the swag over my shoulders. “Never mind, AJ” I say to him, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll have another chance at it in 2023.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know how to explain the 2019 ICC Cricket World Cup to people who don’t follow cricket but you should watch [this eight minute summary](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kwu1yIC-ssg) of the most dramatic day of my life. I tried to write this last year but had too many feelings. I still have too many feelings, but I no longer feel guilty trying to decide who to kick out of the England squad to fit Raffles in. Modern Raffles is so hard to make work, the key is to apply porn and feelings until it fits well enough. (I still have a whole bloody novel in me about Bunny Manders, cricket journalist, in love with AJ Raffles, England cricketer and kleptomaniac who swears he's a jewel thief, but that's for another time).
> 
> Come chat to me about Raffles and cricket whenever over on my [tumblr](http://cicaklah.tumblr.com)


End file.
